


the drape of marble

by spickerzocker



Series: Good Omens Big Bang 2019 [1]
Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Crowley Is A Pine Tree In Sunglasses, Crowley is a Mess (Good Omens), Emotions, Good Omens Big Bang, M/M, Pining, Renaissance Era, black!aziraphale, gratituous description of fabric, non-graphic nudity, oblivious asshole!aziraphale, sculptor!crowley, touch-starved gays
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-28
Updated: 2020-01-28
Packaged: 2021-02-27 09:27:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,855
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22454938
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spickerzocker/pseuds/spickerzocker
Summary: Crowley leaves Venice after the plague, determined to start over and make a new life for himself. After a few years in Florence, he meets someone who is not a stranger at all.A lot of pining, some misunderstandings, two bits of handholding and more emotional horniness than you think.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: Good Omens Big Bang 2019 [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1615783
Comments: 2
Kudos: 28
Collections: Good Omens Big Bang 2019





	the drape of marble

**Author's Note:**

> So. This fic is officially a thing now. Huh.
> 
> I'm very sorry the footnote links are broken (for now) but it's way too late and coding is a pain in the neck (literally! I have a neck cramp now). 
> 
> This work would not have been possible without my lovely, lovely artists eliza--thornberry and paranormaljackal as well as The Horsemen Of The ~~Apocalypse~~ Good Omens Big Bang. Shoutout to y'all. 
> 
> I own neither Aziraphale nor Crowley, just my feelings.

Crowley stumbled out of a dirty tavern in Venice. Filthy, really. The world was gently swaying around him, but the worst seemed to be over. 

He took a deep breath of the damp night air and squeezed his eyes shut. _New century, new me, right?_ Wrapping the thin, scratchy blanket around himself against the chill, he turned south, making his way down the dark street, he didn’t even worry whether the angel would find him. 

He always did, in the end. 

* * *

Crowley opened the heavy oak door with a foot, balancing a heap of scrolls in his arms, and entered a sunlit room. Summer had just begun, but already the sun was heating up the cobblestones of the streets. There were only three, maybe four weeks until he had an excuse for a siesta. Two and a half if he pushed it. 

The Guild of Saint Luke didn’t technically exist. Luckily for all the artists and sculptors, technicalities were easily dismissed if that was what got results. 

Crowley never joined the Guild, but if anyone had thought to check in the great, leather-bound Book Of Members, they would have found his name a few pages back, right around the time he arrived in Florence a few years ago. Nobody did, though. After all, Antonio J. Crowley was a minor, yet promising, sculptor, and join the guild was what sculptors did. 

Crowley deposited the scrolls of drafts and sketches on a table with other submissions. Not that he hoped to be selected as a church artist. Why would he, he had no need for the money and being a demon, working for the church would simply be _awkward_ . But even Crowley couldn’t deny that the challenge would be… _tempting_. Crowley drifted towards the lively debate in one of the corners. 

“I’m just saying, the serpent was clearly _female_! Only a female would-” 

“You say that as if all women are wily seductresses out to tempt everyone! Of course the serpent was male! Eve would hardly be tempted by a woman!” 

“Gentlemen,” Crowley drawled, “Has it occurred to you that the serpent may not have been male or female, but a hermaphrodite?” 

He grinned sharply into the moment of stunned silence. Apple of discord, that one. 

“He’s right. The anatomy of cold-blooded vertebrae-” 

“Oh, shut up, di ser Piero. Nobody cares what you found while poking cadavers.” 

Crowley glanced at the man. Older, long hair, beard, straight nose, sharp eyes. Licking his lips, Crowley smelled oil paint. 

The man laughed. “You can keep arguing, me and my friend have better things to do.” 

Crowley nodded. “Sure do. Would you care for a walk in the courtyard?” 

“Why, of course! The weather has been lovely lately.” 

They stepped out into the courtyard, stamped ground warm under Crowley’s soles from baking in the sun the whole day. In the shade of the orange trees, Crowley kept sneaking glances at the other man. Could it be… 

The stranger sighed and spread his arms. “Yes, it really is me, Leonardo di ser Piero da Vinci, painter of _The Last Supper_ of Milan.” 

Crowley could _feel_ his pupils expand to near-perfect circles and instinctively bumped his tinted glasses higher. “Oh, it is _such_ an honor to meet you, di ser Piero, sir! Your work is such an inspiration! I had the chance to see some of your first sketches for-” 

Leonardo di ser Piero laughed and waved Crowley off. “Please, call me Leonardo. Formalities always make me feel old, or like you’re some sort of church official. You’re not, are you?” 

“Oh no. I’m about as far as you can get from one.” 

“Thank goodness, I’ve had enough of those for a lifetime. If you’d like, you can visit me in my workshop sometime.” 

“Really?” 

“Sure, it’s always nice to have young talent around.” 

Crowley beamed. 

* * *

“No, no, no. No. Careful with that, don’t crack it!” 

The man unloading the block of marble from the cart rolled his eyes. “Sure. Whatever.” 

“If you break it you can bet the replacement’s coming out of your paycheck!” 

The man rolled his eyes and pushed the wheelbarrow inside the building, leaving Crowley fuming in the courtyard until the next thing caught his attention. That happened to be the delivery boy he sent to the smith to- 

The sound of yelling and crashes tumbled over the courtyard wall from the street. Crowley hurried outside, blessing under his breath. If he had to deal with another of those imbeciles mishandling his materials, he would blow his gasket. 

The air on the street was coated with the bitterslick scent of olive oil. Crowley avoided clay shards strewn across the cobblestone and ducked around a rubberneck. A horse was going wild, the cart behind it skidding across the street. A single passerby was close to the horse, not backing away. Why was he not backing away? Why was he standing there? The horse reared up. Crowley broke into a run. 

Within the next two seconds, several things happened very slowly. 

One, Crowley overlooked a broken bottle in his path. While running, he stepped in the oil puddle from the bottle. It coated the bottom of his shoe in a thick film of slip. 

Two, the horse noticed Crowley. Already panicked, its instincts reacted to what )for some imperceptible reason) was clearly a snake. This lead it to panic even more. It reared up in an attempt to defend itself. 

Three, Crowley ran the next step in his trajectory towards the passerby. His sole connected with the stone but without the friction it would normally have, it kept sliding. Not being prepared, Crowley slipped and landed on his back in the dust. 

Four, the passerby turned and raised his hand toward the horse. A minor miracle rippled from his hand towards the horse. The horse immediately calmed. However, the miracle was hastily performed and overshot by a mile. 

Within the next second, only one thing happened. 

Crowley looked up at the stranger, who was not a stranger at all. His unruly blonde curls caught the late afternoon sun like a halo of spun gold and his dark skin shone like polished marble. Crowley gazed into his bright blue eyes and Aziraphale gazed back. 

Then Aziraphale was gone and Crowley was left with a noisy crowd, a sleeping horse, dust and oil on his doublet and his glasses askew. Crowley closed his eyes and let his head thump back against the sun-warmed stone. He closed his eyes and sighed. 

So much for good impressions. 

* * *

Crowley walked into a darkened tavern. It was not _modern_ and on the expensive side, not too cheap, but not quite antiquated enough to draw hordes or wannabe old money. Just right. 

Crowley made his way to the back, where he could see a blond head silhouetted against candlelight. Crowley pulled up a chair and sat without asking. He smiled at the waitress who bustled up. “Another bottle of what he’s having.” She nodded and disappeared towards the bar. 

“Oh, I shouldn’t be accepting gifts from the enemy, _really_ ,” Aziraphale flustered, “Upstairs is very strict about-” 

Crowley waved him off. “Relax. See it as a thank-you. Saved my life there, or at least my corporation.” 

The waitress set the uncorked bottle and a second glass on the table then made herself scarce. Crowley poured himself a drink and took a sip, rolling the wine and thoughts about how to approach Aziraphale around his mouth and head. 

Crowley swallowed. “So, what have you been up to?” 

Aziraphale took a sip of his wine. “Well, this and that. I’ve rented a small flat, just for myself. The bookbinder’s lane is rather lovely, even though it always smells like glue. But what are miracles for?” 

Crowley smiled. “Right.” 

“I mean, they’re wonderful things, books. I’ve considered going into the trade myself, but it’s just so _messy_.” 

“So still no day job?” 

“No, but I doubt anyone notices. And if they do, other people’s finances are none of their business.” 

“So same old?” 

“Same old, except I could swear humans are finding new ways to be stupid every day.” 

“Really?” Crowley leant forward. “What did they do this time?” 

“Ugh, don’t get me started…” 

Aziraphale launched into a complicated story about how one of the bookbinders always used too much glue in his books because his apprentice watered it down so he could spend the money on mediocre drink instead. Crowley tried to hide his smile in his glass. 

“… and then he tried to sell the books with half the pages so stuck together you had to break the spine to open it!” Aziraphale waved his empty glass about for emphasis. Crowley caught the bottom of Aziraphale’s glass and steadied it. The glass was smooth and hard against Crowley’s palm, his fingertips gripping Aziraphale’s hand beacons of soft warmth. 

“Oh, but I shouldn’t…” Aziraphale protested. 

Crowley picked up the bottle. “Just this one, indulge me?” Crowley smiled at Aziraphale. 

Aziraphale smiled back. “Just this one.” 

Crowley poured a generous amount into Aziraphale’s glass and let his hand fall to the table, the worn wood smooth in all the wrong ways. Crowley balled his hand into a fist and poured himself another one. And if he was a bit too generous, well, he paid for the bottle, didn’t he? 

Crowley raised his glass. “To wine being wine and glue being glue, and not the other way around.” 

Aziraphale clinked his glass against Crowley’s. “Even though some may wish it was the other way around.” Aziraphale’s eyes crinkled at the corners when he smiled. 

Crowley took a gulp of his wine without tasting it. He watched Aziraphale laugh into his glass in the low candlelight, Aziraphale’s cheeks flushed from the alcohol. Crowley licked his lips and looked away1;. Crowley gazed down into his wine glass and tossed it back. 

"Well, Angel, it’s getting late. We should go. Some of us have work in the morning.” 

Aziraphale pouted but emptied his glass as well. 

Crowley stood up, tossed a few coins on the table and stretched, stumbling only a little. Aziraphale held out a hand. Crowley rolled his eyes behind his glasses but grasped it and pulled Aziraphale to his feet. Leaving the softness of Aziraphale’s skin behind, Crowley grasped him by the elbow instead and lead him outside. 

“I’ll walk you home.” 

“You don’t have to-” 

The fresh air hit Crowley and he realized he was somewhat drunker than he thought he was.“I- I want to.” 

Aziraphale leant into Crowley’s side, warm even through their clothes. “Alright.” 

Crowley slung his arm around Aziraphale’s shoulders and leant a little on him. Walking when drunk was hard, much harder than slithering. At least with that the side-to-side got you forward. 

Aziraphale hid his face in Crowley’s shoulder, soft puffs of air heating the fabric as he laughed. 

Crowley blinked. “Did I- Did I say that out loud?” 

Aziraphale just grinned and shook his head. “To the left here, dear boy.” An arm around Crowley’s waist gently steered him. Crowley leaned into it. 

They came to a stop in front of a mildly rickety staircase leading up. The warmth was gone from Crowley’s side. Aziraphale grabbed onto the handrail and started to scale the stairs. Crowley leant against the chilly stone, shivered and shook his head. What in Hea- He- _Earth’s_ name did he think he was doing? 

Aziraphale, having reached the first landing finally noticed that Crowley was no longer draped over him and turned around. In the light of the halfmoon his hair and eyes looked lighter, silvery-white. Crowley swallowed and pushed his glasses up. 

“Uh, good time. We had a good time tonight, or at least I did. We should do this again sometime. I mean, as long as we’re close. In prosk- proxe- the area. Relatively. So, see you around. I guess. Ciao!” With that, Crowley turned on his heel and speed-stalked into the shadows. 

* * *

Crowley slowly blinked against the sun streaming into his room and splattered over his face. He groaned and rolled over, pulling his blanket tight around himself. Crowley lay in the scratchy-soft cocoon until he could not deny the reality of consciousness any longer. He sighed and sat up. Mornings were _terrible_. 

Crowley stood up and scrubbed his hand over his face, stubble rough against his palm. He pulled his shirt over his head and dropped it in the basket. Crowley padded over to the water basin and splashed water in his face. He wet a washcloth and started scrubbing himself down. Crowley caught a glance of himself in the shaving mirror and pulled a face. He was already on the skinny side and the stubble made him look positively _gaunt_. He really should go to a barber soon. 

Crowley grabbed a fresh shirt and pulled on trousers and hose. He slipped into his shoes, not bothering to close them and made his way down the stairs to the first floor, the buckles clinking on the wood. Crowley grabbed some charcoal, a roll of paper and a board and plopped down on the windowsill. The street was almost fully awake, not quite the bustle of the afternoon. Crowley let his mind wander while he sketched. How long had Aziraphale been in the city? Crowley had only arrived himself a few years ago and they didn’t exactly frequent the same social circles. Still, he wished they had met again earlier. Crowley was reminded of Aziraphale laughing in the soft candlelight. Crowley bit his lip. They hadn’t agreed when they would meet the next time. _Would_ there be a next time? 

Crowley looked down on his sketchboard. Aziraphale stared back at him, except not. Crowley scrunched his nose up and miracled a piece of bread into his hand. 

He muttered, “No, no, no, this is all wrong, what was I thinking,” as he dabbed at the outline of Aziraphale’s nose. Crowley held the sketch at arm’s length and squinted. What was he missing? 

Crowley’s train of thought was rudely derailed by church bells. He counted the tolls and sighed. One of his clients was coming soon. Crowley carelessly rolled his warm-up sketch into a tube and tossed it on the table. 

* * *

Crowley counted the houses as he walked down the sunlit street. Well, it looked like he was in the right place. He lifted the heavy doorknocker and let it pound against the wooden door. A servant opened the door and Crowley smiled nervously at her. 

“Hi! Uh, I’m here to see Leonardo?” 

She looked unimpressed. “And you would be?” 

“Crowley. Antonio Crowley.” 

The servant sighed and opened the door wider. “He mentioned you might drop by. Come, he’s in his workshop.” 

Crowley followed her down the hall. “What’s your name, if I may ask?” 

She leveled him with a look, clearly unimpressed. He could respect that. “Call me Theophania. Through here.” 

Crowley found himself in a room with high ceilings and several large tables covered in heaps of notes and sketches. Even more were tacked up on the walls, several easels scattered across the room. Wood and canvas models were suspended from the ceiling. Crowley’s mouth hung open. The smell of pigment, turpentine and linseed oil was _everywhere_. 

“Sir! You’ve got a visitor!” Theophania called into the mess. 

“Here!” 

Theophania almost rolled her eyes. “Can you find him on your own?” 

“Oh, sure.” 

She huffed, “Good, I have things to do,” turned on her heel and disappeared into the depths of the house. 

Crowley slowly tiptoed through the valleys between the overflowing tables. Crowley’s tongue flickered out. He was getting closer and closer to the smell of warm charcoal and soft scraping. He rounded an easel and saw Leonardo sketching, another man wearing nothing but a sheet and eating grapes laying on a bench opposite Leonardo. 

Crowley blinked. 

The man on the bench grinned at Crowley. “I’m Gian or Andrea, and you must be Antonio. Leonardo has told me _so_ much about you.” Gian threw a grape into the air, caught it in his mouth and winked. 

“I, um, nice to meet you, uh,” Crowley stammered. 

Leonardo spoke, “He’s a plague upon my house, that’s what he is.” Leonardo looked up at Crowley with a smile. “Also known as Salaì, since he insists on stealing my things and emptying my pantry, the little devil.” 

Salaì grinned and shrugged. “What can I say. Beautiful young men like myself need certain comforts to survive, don’t we, Antonio?” 

Crowley felt his cheeks heat. 

Salaì cooed. “Aw, Leo, you didn’t say he was _shy_.” 

Leonardo rolled his eyes. “Stop hitting on him. He’s just here for advice.” 

Salaì smirked. “This time.” 

Leonardo shook his head and put his board down. “Incorrigible,” he sighed, standing up. “Why don’t we get away from this pervert and I show you around?” 

“You love it!” Salaì called after them as Leonardo steered Crowley away by the elbow. 

The workshop was phenomenal. The papers on the tables contained sketches, anatomical diagrams and blueprints for various machines ranging from automatons over mobile fortresses to wings and flying apparatuses. Finally, they came to a wall where sheets of paper with thumbnails drawn in charcoal were tacked up. 

Leonardo sighed. “I have this commission of Lisa del Giacondo coming up and I just don’t know what to do with it.” 

“Ah, yes.” Crowley nodded. “Hate it when you think of a pose and it just… doesn’t work out.” 

Leonardo lit up. “Can I sketch you?” 

“Pardon?” 

“Can I sketch you as practice? Salaì got sick of sitting for this one weeks ago.” 

Crowley scratched the back of his neck. “Uh, sure.” 

“Just one second, please sit, uh, _there_ , I’m going to get my things.” Leonardo flitted to one of the tables, muttering about paper and pencils under his breath. 

Crowley looked around in search of an empty chair, gave up and gingerly moved the smallest pile of papers to the floor and sat down. 

Leonardo turned around, a roll of paper, a drawing board and some red chalk in his hands. He hooked a foot around the leg of a stool and dragged it out from underneath a table. Leonardo sat down, attached the paper to the board and looked up at Crowley. “Can you put your arms on the armrest? Turn your head to the left. No, the other left. Yes, just like that.” 

Crowley sat as still as he could as Leonardo’s chalk scraped across the paper. the models of the flying mechanisms suspended from the rafters caught his eyes. They were closer now, and Crowley could see how they were constructed and what birds had inspired them. 

The one that was made of light wood and bleached canvas had wings that were long, angled and narrow, perfect for soaring above waves. A seagull above the waves of change. 

Beneath it, a smaller model was suspended in the middle of a daredevil tumble. Grey canvas and dark walnut wood formed a delicate sliver of wings and a forked tail; a swallow. 

Crowley’s eyes wandered back to Leonardo, engrossed in the sketch. He had a sort of intensity to him, a spark of _seeing_ instead of just watching. Salaì was not hard on the eyes, either, with his curly hair and perpetual mischief. 

Leonardo’s strokes slowed, his eyes flitting between the paper and Crowley more often before he sat back. 

Crowley raised an eyebrow. “Done?” 

Leonardo smiled and turned the board around. 

Crowley’s breath hitched. It was him, dark glasses and all, a slight smile on his face. 

“I love it.” 

Leonardo opened his mouth, but was interrupted by Theophania announcing a visitor. 

Leonardo responded, “Through here!” and turned to Crowley. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t think this patron would come so soon.” 

“No problem at all,” Crowley assured him. 

Leonardo hurried towards the door, Crowley trailing a safe distance behind. 

“Oh! Hello!” Leonardo said to the visitor. 

“Hello. I trust that you have the sketches?” said a familiar voice, perhaps the most familiar of all. 

“Oh yes, of course. Right - here.” 

Crowley peeked around an easel. Aziraphale stood in the middle of the workshop, watching Leonardo root through a mountain of rolled paper. 

A hand landed on Crowley’s shoulder. Crowley spun around, nearly knocking a cup of paint-crusted paintbrushes to the floor. 

“Shh, it’s just me,” Salai whispered. 

Crowley clutched at his chest. “Nearly scared the devil out of me.” 

One of Salaì’s mouth corners ticked up. He nodded towards Aziraphale. “You know him?” 

Crowley hesitated. “He’s a… an old acquaintance.” 

“But you wish he was more than an acquaintance, don’t you?” 

“I- I don’t see how that is _any_ of your business!” 

“Keep it down, will you? What if I were to, say, _help_ you with your little… boy problem?” 

Crowley sighed. “No, we have… _history_. It’s complicated.” 

“Well, the way I see it, most history is less complicated than people make it out to be. But I’ll try not to meddle if you don’t want me to.” 

Leonardo and Aziraphale said their goodbyes and Crowley peeked around the easel only to catch a peek of Aziraphale's unruly hair retreating through the door. 

At the sound of barely concealed chuckling, Crowley turned around and blinked owlishly at Leonardo. 

Leonardo patted Crowley on the shoulder and shook his head. "I know better than trying to be with someone who looks at another like that." 

Salaì threw his hands up. "I tried to help him but he won't _let_ me!" 

"Seriously, if you need help in putting the moves on him, Salaì is great with that kind of thing," Leonardo said. 

Crowley felt his cheeks heat. This was only marginally more enjoyable than sinking down through the floor to Below. 

"Now," said Leonardo, bustling off into the workshop, "that reminds me. I really should start working on the next commission for Signore Fell, and he asked me to keep my work for him confidential, so I'm afraid I'll have to cut this visit short. However, I believe I have something for you." 

Crowley took the proffered roll of paper, carefully unrolling it. It was the sketch of Crowley Leonardo had made earlier. Crowley looked up at Leonardo. 

Leonardo shrugged. "You seem to like it. To me, it's just a sketch. Keep it." 

Crowley smiled. "Thank you. Guess I'll be on my way. Ciao!" 

"Goodbye, see you soon," said Leonardo, "Oh, and Antonio?" 

Crowley turned around in the doorway. "Yes?" 

"When I was working on _The Last Supper_ , I often didn't paint for a week or so and then spent entire days working. You aren't going to make progress every day." 

* * *

Crowley lay on his bed, staring off into darkness. He blinked. Sighing, he rolled over and continued staring into darkness, but horizontally. 

Crowley fiddled with a loose thread of the blanket, then smoothed it out again, the texture rough under his fingers. He bit his lip. What would it be like to have Aziraphale next to him? To share the stillness of the room? The angel always looked so soft and warm. Would the linen of his shirt be softer than Crowley's to the touch? Would Crowley be allowed to find out? 

Crowley sat up and dug the heels of his hands into his eye sockets. He sighed. It was all pointless, anyway. He wandered over to the window, nudged open the shutters and leaned out. The breeze blew distant laughter into the room. Crowley wondered if one of the voices was Aziraphale's. Was he out there, getting drunk with some stranger? He probably preferred it that way. 

Crowley wandered back into the room in search of some paper and something to sketch with. He came across an old inkwell and quill he had abandoned a while ago. Something about ink being too permanent. 

Crowley trudged back to the window and planted himself on the windowsill. The waxing moonlight was just bright enough to draw by. 

Crowley dipped the quill into the overly thick ink and began to sketch. He drew Aziraphale again; how could he not? Crowley recalled Aziraphale at the very beginning in the garden. How he had wanted to do the right thing. How he had kept the humans out, yet had been merciful enough to give them his sword. 

Crowley shook the memory and ventured further back. Before Aziraphale had given his sword away, he had stood at the Eastern gate, watching over Adam and Eva with a soft expression. Crowley smiled. That was his angel. 

* * *

Crowley jolted awake at the sound of the ringing church bells..six, seven, eight, nine times. Much too late for him to still be asleep! Crowley shot up and stumbled into his clothes. The portfolios would be collected soon, and Crowley still hadn't submitted all he wanted yet. 

On the way out of the room, Crowley doubled back and hesitated, hand outstretched. Should he submit last night's sketch of Aziraphale? Crowley grimaced. 

What the hel- heck. Not like he was going to keep the thing, anyway. 

* * *

Crowley was whistling a meandering tune when he came back. He’d gotten his portfolio submitted in time and had spent a couple hours catching up with Leonardo. 

A flick of blond caught Crowley’s eye. Aziraphale was standing in the shadow of the apple tree, arms crossed and tapping his foot. When he spotted Crowley, he hurried over. 

“Where have you been? I have been waiting for _hours_!” 

“Just running an errand, angel.” 

Aziraphale frowned. “What for?”

Crowley waved him off. “No matter. You wanted to see me?” 

Aziraphale glanced around. “Maybe we could discuss this somewhere more… private?” 

“Sure. Follow me.” Crowley led him into the dusty coolness of the workshop. “What is it?” 

Aziraphale licked his lips. “Do- do you think the Medicis are paying someone off for their church posts?” 

Crowley leant back against a table and laughed. 

“First of all, how would I know? And second of all, _obviously_.” 

“What do you mean, _how would you know_?” 

“Because I had nothing to do with it.” 

“Nothing? Really, my dear. Tempting men of the cloth to bribery is hardly nothing!”

“I can _assure_ you, I didn't do it! They went and got themselves damned all alone!” 

“Well, if you aren’t tempting, what are you doing then? Why are you here?” 

Crowley spread his arms. “Why, am I not allowed to simply create something?” 

Aziraphale took a step back and looked around the workshop, seeing the half-finished busts and dusty sketches strewn about the tables for the first time. Crowley could near pinpoint the moment Aziraphale _realized_. 

“You… you can’t be serious. I don’t think your kind _could_ if you tried.” 

Crowley smiled a bitter little smile and shook his head. “Can’t win with you, angel. Just go.” He couldn’t make himself look at Aziraphale, not when he gave an indignant huff without a comeback and not when he left. 

* * *

Crowley sighed in frustration. He refused to open his eyes, and hoped that sleep would take him despite the conversation with Aziraphale replaying on the insides of his eyelids. Crowley remembered the look of stunned disbelief morphing into derision on Aziraphale’s face, groaned, threw an arm over his face and grimaced. Not that Aziraphale was wrong, per se. Most demons _couldn’t_ scrape together a single ounce of creativity between a dozen of them. 

It still stung. 

Crowley’s arm was starting to go numb, so he dropped it back down on top of the blanket. The wool was scratchy against his wrist where cuffs gaped open. 

Crowley sat up and shook his head. No use in thinking about it. He dragged the blanket off his bed, the wool desperately clinging to the sheets as a last reminder of winter. Crowley haphazardly folded the blanket and shoved it into the chest at the foot of his bed. 

He laid in the now damp sheets and wondered why he had ever missed Aziraphale in the first place. 

* * *

“Crowley! Crowley, what were you _thinking_? Crowley, answer me!” 

Crowley blinked against the bright light as something- some _one_ shook him by the shoulders. 

Crowley squinted up at Aziraphale, all blond curls and flustered fury. “Wha?” 

Aziraphale faltered and very consciously didn’t recoil. Crowley belatedly remembered why the room was so much brighter than usual and suppressed the urge to reach for his glasses. If the angel wanted to come in uninvited and shake him awake, he could deal with Crowley’s eyes. 

Aziraphale found traction again and the anger returned full-force. “I am onto you! That you come into this city, this thriving beacon humanity to do your foul dealings! You lie and deceive and cheat honest men out of their living, just to serve your wicked purpose!” 

Crowley sat up, swung his feet out of bed and jammed the heels of his hands hard enough into his eye sockets to see rainbow-black kaleidoscopes. He was still in yesterday’s shirt, the linen soft and sleep-warm against his skin. Crowley was no stranger to nudity, but he still felt exposed and underdressed, acutely aware that this century’s underthings did not include bottoms. 

Aziraphale was talking. “... and now, you sit here-” 

“Angel, I’d love to tell you what I was thinking, if I had the faintest clue what I have _done_ ,” Crowley interrupted. 

That seemed to bring Aziraphale up short. _Good_ , Crowley thought viciously, _how do you like them apples_. 

Aziraphale recovered with vigor. “Have you truly done so many foul dealings in this city that you don’t know what I’m talking about?” 

Crowley shook his head and pushed himself off the bed. Aziraphale shuffled out of the way. Crowley walked over to the table with the water pitcher and poured himself a cup. He felt Aziraphale’s eyes burn into his back as he drank. Crowley set his cup down and looked at Aziraphale from the corner of his eye. 

“Haven’t tempted anyone since the turn of the century, how ‘bout that.Nothing you’d call demonic, even. I’ve just been living life.” 

Aziraphale sucked in a breath and took a step back, then another. He pursed his lips. “Really dear boy, I would’ve thought we were past you trying to lie to me,” Aziraphale said and was gone. 

* * *

Someone knocked on the open door of the workshop. Crowley looked up from where he was looking for his pencil and banged his head on the underside of the table. He hissed and rubbed the back of his head. 

Crowley called out, “Just a minute!” and set to work shuffling out backwards from underneath the table. Once he was clear, he straightened out and halfheartedly batted at the white dust on his knees. Crowley sighed. 

“Through here!” he called. 

The delivery boy, skinny and vaguely grubby in a way that implied someone had done their best to clean, scurried between the tables and half-finished pieces around the workshop and presented Crowley with a rolled up sketch and a letter. 

Crowley snatched the papers from the boy, juggled them against his body while he rummaged around in his purse and flicked a few coins at the boy. 

"There. Now get." 

The boy mumbled his thanks and skittered out the door, leaving Crowley alone with his cargo. 

Crowley frowned and jammed his finger under the flap to break the seal only to pull back with a hiss. He squinted at the red blob. Church sigil, just _grand_. 

"What the h-e-double- _fuck_ do you bastards want now," Crowley murmured as he hunted around for something vaguely sharp enough to break the wax. He spotted a mug with various doodads from his pottery phase last year. Crowley fished a particularly knifey tool out and pried the seal off the letter. Unfolding it, his eyes quickly scanned it from behind his glasses. Crowley frowned, paused, made sure nobody else was around, shoved his glasses up onto his forehead and reread the whole thing. 

He had been selected to make a church statue. 

Crowley chewed his lip. That scroll looked awfully familiar. Crowley gingerly picked the scroll up and unrolled it. Aziraphale placidly stared back at him. Crowley huffed a bitter laugh and tossed the sketch onto the nearest table. 

So much work and now that he had finally been accepted, he couldn’t get himself to feel excited about it. 

Still, the sand in the metaphorical glass was a-trickling, and it just wouldn’t do to not have anything to show. Better get started, then. 

Crowley grabbed a sheaf of paper and made himself comfortable on the windowsill. He felt around the windowsill only to find it empty. Crowley groaned. He remembered that his favourite charcoal stick was still on the ground under a table. He snapped his fingers to summon it and started drawing. 

Crowley blocked out the head and body in wide, loose ovals. Shoulders and hips were next. Next was the hardest part. Crowley closed his eyes and concentrated on how Aziraphale looked. Black skin, a wide nose and a double chin no matter how hungry the year was. A strong brow, a barely kept mop of light blond hair and the most startlingly bright blue eyes known to mankind. 

Crowley put his charcoal down. The stranger on the paper looked nothing like Aziraphale. 

* * *

Crowley woke up for the fifth time. He curled beneath the too thin sheet, tried to tuck both cold feet into marginally less cold nooks of his own body and nearly succeeded. Crowley briefly considered turning into his snake form so the cold would actually put him to sleep instead of waking him up, but quickly discarded the idea. 

He could also get the blanket. 

Crowley chewed on his bottom lip. It would be _significantly_ warmer than just the sheet. In the morning he could just put it away and forget about it. Until the next cold night, that was. 

Crowley sighed and turned over. Doing his best to fit his leg over his shoulder, he tried to focus on anything but the cold. Or Aziraphale. 

Especially Aziraphale. 

* * *

Crowley stumbled out of bed and shuffled through his morning routine at half-speed. He caught a glance at himself in the mirror. His stubble was coming in again, but not strong enough to warrant another shave yet. Maybe another day or two. 

Still, he looked tired. That’s what sleeping poorly got you. 

Crowley walked down the stairs and took a look around his workshop. It could use _some_ tidying up, he supposed. 

With a wave of his hand, Crowley banished the dust from the floor elsewhere2 and set to rearranging the hammers and chisels. He lost track of whatever new system he was trying to implement. He invented another one and promptly lost track of that one, too. 

After a few hours of fruitless organizing and reorganizing Crowley admitted defeat and stepped outside for a breath of fresh air. Leaning against the apple tree in the courtyard, Crowley sighed. 

Perhaps a change of scenery was in order. 

Making his way to Leonardo’s workshop, Crowley was struck by how people passed around each other without ever paying attention to the people around them. They walked around all day and rolled around in bed all night, thinking about a handful of things and people and ignoring the world at large. 

He wasn’t much better, he supposed. Never had been. Never could have been. 

Crowley knocked on Leonardo’s door again and was guided inside by Theophania. This time, she abandoned him well before the door to the workshop, refusing to come inside with the words “I’ve seen more than I ever wanted already, thanks a lot.” 

Crowley stepped once again into Leonardo’s workshop and called for Leonardo. 

“Through here!” 

Crowley carefully navigated through the maze of art materials and came to face Leonardo standing in front of an easel, drawing, and Salaí laying on a padded bench, nude. 

Crowley blinked. 

Salaí winked at Crowley and muttered through his teeth, “If I move, he says he’ll smack me.” 

Leonardo shook his head without looking away from his board. “It was hard enough to get him to sit still in the first place. You don’t want to know what I had to promise him to get him to agree, but you can _probably_ imagine.” Leonardo looked up, smiling and frowned as he caught sight of Crowley. “Are you alright? I regret to say this, but you do not look well.” 

“Was it that blond git Aziraphale you’re losing sleep over?” Salai asked, sitting up. “Does that mean there’s something between you now? Have yo- Ow!” 

Leonardo tossed the roll of paper back into a nearby bin. “Told you I would. Now, in order. You know Aziraphale?” 

Crowley sighed. “We are… old acquaintances.” 

“How old?” 

“As old as you’d think and then some.” Crowley nudged Salaí over on the bench and sat down. 

Leonardo crossed his arms. “That’s not a number.” 

“I’ve known him for most of my life. Sheesh.” 

Leonardo gingerly lowered himself onto the bench. “So how did you meet?” 

“Without revealing too much… I was supposed to cause trouble, he was supposed to stop me, when he saw me it was already too late so we just talked. Had a few run-ins with each other over the years, and here we are.” 

“Doesn’t explain why you’re losing sleep over him.” Salaí elbowed Crowley and waggled his eyebrows. “Unless. . ?” 

Crowley rolled his eyes. “No, there is _nothing_ going on. We had an argument. He thought I had either done something I haven’t done, or obtained something through illegal means - not quite clear on this one - and he said some really hurtful things. So yeah. The worst part is that he probably doesn’t even realize.” 

“Ouch.” Leonardo pulled a face. “Sounds like a right bastard.” 

Crowley nodded. “He can be.” 

Salaí clapped Crowley on the shoulder. “You’re better off without him. Probably.” 

Salaí’s hand was rubbing warm circles into Crowley’s shoulders. Crowley attempted a wobbly smile. “Are you sure?” 

“Absolutely not. But no-one ever is, so… “ 

Aziraphale rounded an easel. “Di ser Piero, I had ano-” and stopped dead in his tracks. 

Crowley abruptly became aware of himself leaning into the warmth of Salaí’s body and how close Leonardo’s hand was to his thigh. 

“Angel-” 

Aziraphale’s glare could have leveled cities. “Foul serpent,” Aziraphale hissed through his teeth. 

Leonardo, Crowley and Salaí listened to Aziraphale’s footsteps as he stormed out. 

Salaí said, “Are you sure there’s nothing going on with you two?” 

Crowley sighed. “Yes.” 

* * *

Crowley stepped out of the barbershop and stroked a hand over his newly smooth cheek. Now, to the market to buy some wine. 

Acquiring a bottle of red wasn’t hard, and soon Crowley found himself loose in the market once again.

The next part of the plan sounded simpler than it was: Find whatever local delicacies were good enough to distract Aziraphale while Crowley talked. 

Through the crowd Crowley spied a stall peddling various baked goods. Yes, that would do. 

After buying a few (Was two too little? Three too presumptuous?) delightful handpies, Crowley made his way to the bookbinder’s alley. The smell of glue and leather hit him full force when he bit his lip. 

Was the wine good enough? 

With a quick wave of Crowley’s hand, it became a vintage from Athens some couple millenia ago. Crowley made a face and poked at the bottle in the basket, the wine becoming a common, but fine local sort. Not like he was trying too hard. Or was he? 

Crowley sighed and the wine found itself once more transformed into a fine export nobody had seen since the death of Caesar and Crowley recalled Aziraphale being very fond of. No matter. Might as well go all out. 

Crowley crept through the gate into the yard and stared up the wooden stairs. He could still back out. But he couldn’t. Crowley took a deep breath and squared his shoulders. He could do it. 

The first few steps were creaky and Crowley grasped at the handrail. Was it just him or were the stairs swaying? Da- _bless_ Aziraphale for always living in such hovels[3](%E2%80%9C#note3%E2%80%9D). Crowley reached the top of the rickety stairs and raised his hand to knock. 

Before he could do anything of the sort, Aziraphale opened the door from the other side. 

They stared at each other for a second. 

“Well?” 

“I can explain?” Crowley attempted. 

Aziraphale huffed. “I’m not sure what there is left to explain.” 

“It’s not what you think it is!” 

“What else could it be?” 

“Wha- No! Why would yo- Ugh. For Go- Sa- someone’s sake, I’m not doing– I’m not-” 

The corner of Aziraphale’s mouth twitched. “By all means, take your time.” 

Crowley sighed. “I wasn’t- tempting anyone. Leonardo is just a friend from work.” 

“And what about the other?”  
“He’s Leonardo’s, not mine!” 

“So why are you here?” 

Crowley bit his lip. “I have a favour to ask.” 

“What is it?” 

“Could we talk somewhere more… private?” 

Aziraphale rolled his eyes and opened the door further. “Come in then.” 

Crowley trotted in behind Aziraphale, taking in his surroundings as he went. The narrow hall opened into a modest room furnished with a solid oak bench, a reading desk, several shelves of books and no table. Crowley sat on the softly threadbare cushions on the bench and pulled his basket onto his lap. 

"I brought dinner. Do you mind if I…" 

Aziraphale consciously didn't drop onto the bench and crossed his arms. "Do what you will." 

Crowley snapped his fingers and set the basket down on the newly appeared table. He pulled out the bottle of wine, remembered he had no glasses, bit his lip, miracled some into the basket in the vain hope Aziraphale wouldn't notice4 and pulled them out as well. Crowley drummed his fingers on the table and glanced at Aziraphale. Aziraphale looked back. Crowley bit his lip, unstoppered the bottle with a flick of his fingers and poured a more than generous measure into both glasses. Wiped at a couple spilled drops with his fingers, hoping that Aziraphale wouldn’t notice. Took a swig and swallowed. 

“So,” Crowley said. 

“You mentioned a favour?” 

“Er, yes.” 

“What would it be? It isn’t anything like that one time in Troy

"Oh." Aziraphale settled back. "What is it, then?" 

Crowley's breath was rough in his chest. "You know how I entered a few sketches in the contest for the church?" 

"The ones you stole from Leonardo?" 

" _What_ ? No! I- I didn't- they're _mine_ , angel. I drew them." 

"I didn't know you knew how to do that." 

“You didn’t- we’ve been around for millenia. You’d think it wouldn’t be beyond my abilities to pick up a little artistic ability!” 

“You do have a point, please carry on. You needed a favour?” 

“Well.” Crowley stared at his hands turning his glass on the table and worried at his bottom lip. “One of the preliminary sketches, the sketches I submitted? May have been of you. Maybe?” Crowley screwed his eyes shut. “I-need-you-to-model-for-me?” 

Crowley heard Aziraphale huff, a glass being picked up and set down again. The smacking of lips accompanied by thoughts and a particularly fine wine. That was it, Aziraphale was going to ask him what the he- hea-, ugh, _Venice_ he was thinking, and was going to tell him to get out of his house and - 

“I don’t know. It’s all rather personal, isn’t it?” 

Crowley blinked at Aziraphale. “Please? It would really help me.” 

“Maybe… I’m finding it hard to decide.” 

“What do I need to do?” 

Aziraphale smiled. “Oh, I’m sure I can think of something.Now, what did you bring apart from this delightful wine?” 

* * *

Crowley rolled out of bed and stumbled into a groggy stretch. It was earlier than he usually got up, but he had things to do and props to buy before he could sketch Aziraphale. If Aziraphale agreed to be sketched. Which he probably would. 

Crowley ran through his morning routine on autopilot, already thinking about what shop he would peruse in search of a fitting fabric. 

When Crowley arrived, the market was already alive with people bustling to and fro. He slunk through the crowd to the fabric merchants' row. 

Crowley ducked inside the shaded stall at the very end of the street, half hidden between a house and a spillover stall from the next row over very loudly advertising the quality of their buttons. 

The stall itself was more like a tent, with lengths of fabric draped across the cramped, dimly lit space as a display or in an attempt at decoration or privacy. Crowley brushed linen in a garish orange even in the twilight of the tent away from his face as he advanced into the shop. 

Crowley wandered around the stall, taking care not to knock the stacks and bolts of fabric piled onto every available surface over. 

A sleek shimmer of green and purple caught Crowley’s eye. He trailed over to the table and ran his hands over the puddle of fabric unwinding off the bolt. It was a shot silk, shimmering even in the low light of the tent. It was so soft and cool against Crowley’s palm it almost felt liquid. Maybe it was too slick? Never mind that the colours wouldn’t be visible on the sculpture anyway. 

Crowley turned, his attention drawn to a fabric black as the sky between the stars. The black velvet seemed to swallow what little sunlight there was whole, so dark it seemed almost blue. Crowley reached out to touch it and his fingers sank deep into the long pile of the fabric. When Crowley grasped a fold of the fabric, it seemed improbably thick. He lifted it up, trying to get a feeling for the drape of it. It hung heavy, folding dramatically onto itself. Crowley set it down and spent the next few minutes dusting himself off. He always forgot what a fraying mess velvet was. 

Crowley frowned. Neither of them felt quite right but he doubted any of the others would, either. He sighed and waved the owner over. 

“A length of both of those, please.” 

* * *

The sun had begun to slant across the air when Crowley reached the theatre. It wasn’t a big building or a well-kept one, but the colourful sign above the door was welcoming anyway. 

Crowley worried at his lower lip. The next item on his agenda was a sword, ideally a prop one. He had contemplated using a real one, but it would be heavier and he wasn’t about to give Aziraphale more to complain about. Crowley squared his shoulders and entered the dark space between performances. 

It was not silent, it was anything but. Workers were up on ladders, installing new curtains with stagehands bustling to and fro, trying to keep the set behind the curtains intact. Crowley snatched a young boy by the shoulder and pulled him aside. 

“Get me a few prop swords,” Crowley said, giving the stagehand a few coins, “I’ll return them, it’s just for a project.” 

The boy nodded and scurried off. 

Crowley watched the workers install the new curtains. The fabric was a rich, dark red - a drastic change from the blue of the old curtains cast off to the side. They had been a deep midnight blue years ago, but time and age had lightened the nightsky to light morning blue, making the silver stars woven into them blend in with the blueish grey. Crowley walked in the general direction of the old curtains, making sure to look anywhere but his target. Nobody paid him any attention. Once he was sure nobody was looking in his direction, he grabbed a piece of the curtains and tucked it into his basket. 

Construction went on around him. 

The lad Crowley had sent on his errand returned with an oblong package wrapped in fabric that rattled when Crowley shoved it in his basket. 

Crowley nodded his goodbye and made his was out of the theatre, lugging his significantly heavier basket behind him. 

* * *

Crowley jiggled his leg as he looked over his setup for the last time. A comfortable bench, several fabric samples folded on a stool nearby, the sword prop that looked the most like the one Aziraphale had in Eden and a few pins and belts laid overtop them. A few apples and a pitcher of water in case either of them got hungry. Was that too much or not enough? Maybe he should- 

“Crowley?” 

Crowley started, knocking his pencils off the table. “Uh, hi Aziraphale.” 

“Oh my, I’m sorry I startled you.” 

“It’s okay.” Crowley crouched down to pick his pencils up. His hand brushed Aziraphale’s, who had bent down to do the same. 

“Here you go,” said Aziraphale, handing Crowley his pencils. 

“Thanks.” Crowley cleared his throat. “You find the place okay?” 

“Yes, I’ve been here before.” 

Crowley nodded. “Right, right. I know that. So, uhm. I was going to have you wear some of these.” He gestured to the folded fabrics. “As a chiton but maybe only pinned on one side. And have you sit on the bench while leaning on the sword. If that’s okay?” 

Aziraphale smiled. “Sure. That sounds good.” 

“That’s… good. Yeah.” 

Aziraphale started unbuttoning his doublet and Crowley became very interested in the floor. Crowley could feel his cheeks burn. This was stupid, they had seen each other nude before, like the incident a few days ago, when Aziraphale had shaken him awake in nothing but his shirt. But until now the nudity had always been a circumstance, not deliberate. And certainly not because the other had _requested_ it. 

“Crowley? Which fabric did you have in mind?” 

Crowley looked up at Aziraphale and his mouth went dry. He swallowed. “You see, I wasn’t actually sure, so I was hoping to try out a few before settling on one?” 

“That sounds reasonable, yes.” 

Crowley picked up the first sample, the purple-green silk and shook it out in a cloud of colour. Aziraphale expectantly held his arms out. Crowley wrapped the fabric around the right side of Aziraphale’s body and the back, holding it shut on the left. 

“Mind holding this for me, please?” Crowley asked, reaching for a belt on the stool behind him. 

Aziraphale obliged him, chuckling. “I like this one. It’s very… you.” 

Crowley hummed, wrapping his arms around Aziraphale’s waist from behind to pass the belt around. Aziraphale’s nape was centimetres from Crowley’s nose, the dark skin close enough to smell the aroma of vellum and old paper surrounding Aziraphale. Crowley fed the belt through the buckle and pulled to secure the fabric in place. He stepped back before he could embarrass himself. 

“Thank you. I think.” 

Crowley took a pin from the stool and pulled some fabric up onto Aziraphale’s shoulder, pinning it in place. Aziraphale’s skin was soft and warm where Crowley’s fingertips touched it. 

Crowley walked around Aziraphale, evaluating his work. Crowley scrunched his face up and reached out, pulling on one of the folds. 

“Well?” Aziraphale asked. 

Crowley sighed and shook his head. “It’s just too… clingy and puddly. No body at all. An absolute nightmare to sculpt.” 

“So, next one?” 

“Next one.” 

Crowley unfolded the black velvet, scattering black lint everywhere. “Ugh.” 

Aziraphale looked up from folding the silk and winced in sympathy. “Velvet is always such a hassle.” 

Crowley helped Aziraphale wrap the fabric around his body and held in place while Aziraphale cinched it in place with the belt. Their fingers brushed. 

Aziraphale handed Crowley the pin and Crowley hitched the fabric onto Aziraphale’s shoulder and pinned it in place. His gaze fixated on the slight hollow at the base of Aziraphale’s throat. There was just a hint of the underlying bone beneath the fat, and Crowley wondered how it would feel if he were to press his lips to it. 

“So, how do I look?” Aziraphale spread his arms. 

Crowley tore his gaze from Aziraphale’s neck and looked him in the eyes. Every time he forgot how blue they were. Crowley licked his lips. “You look great.” 

“Really?” 

Crowley took a step back and re-evaluated. “Yeah, no. The velvet is too…” He made a scrunching gesture with his hand. 

Aziraphale pulled a face and nodded. The velvet was thick and voluminous, to the point that it was almost hard to tell where Aziraphale was. 

“What about that one?” Aziraphale nodded towards the old curtain. Crowley frowned. The fabric was thick and stiff, even more so than the velvet. Though the thought of Aziraphale wrapped in a piece of the sky was great… 

Crowley had an idea. 

“Wait here, angel.” 

Crowley left a bemused Aziraphale standing in the workshop as he dashed upstairs into his bedroom. Where had he left it? It wasn’t on his bed, it wasn’t on the shelf… the trunk at the foot of his bed, of course! Crowley threw it open and pulled the grey blanket out, then hurried back downstairs. 

“I’m back! I think this ought to work…”Crowley heard a soft inhale. “Aziraphale?” 

Aziraphale blinked at him. “Is that what I think it is?” 

Crowley turned the blanket over in his hands, suddenly self-conscious. “It may be.” 

“The one I gave you in that dreadful bar in Venice. You kept it?” 

“Of course.” Crowley swallowed. “Should I not have?” 

“No, no. I’m glad you did.” Aziraphale smiled. 

Crowley tentatively smiled back. 

“So, let’s try this,” Crowley said and offered Aziraphale the blanket. 

Aziraphale took it and wrapped it around himself. Crowley held the blanket in place while Aziraphale secured it with the belt and the pin. 

“So, how’s this?” 

Crowley took a step back and smoothed a fold on Aziraphale’s shoulder. Crowley could feel the heat radiating from the skin underneath. He bit his lip. “It’s perfect.” 

Aziraphale picked up the sword like an old friend and sat on the bench, the point of the sword planted on the floor between his feet. “Like this?” 

Crowley reached out and gently steered Aziraphale’s wrist higher. “A little higher…” Then tapped the inside of Aziraphale’s knee to shift his leg. “Just like that.” 

Crowley went to the table, took a roll of paper and smoothed it out on a board, securing it in the corners. 

Aziraphale said, “Crowley?” 

Crowley looked up. “Yeah?” 

“Could you do me just one favour before we start?” 

“Of course.” 

“Take off your glasses for me?” 

Crowley blinked. “Oh.” 

“If that’s too forward, I’m very sorry. I understand-” 

“No, no. It.” Crowley swallowed. “It’s fine.” 

“Come here,” Aziraphale beckoned Crowley. 

Crowley hesitantly walked closer to Aziraphale and bent down. Careful fingers brushed the sides of Crowley’s face as his glasses were plucked from his nose. Crowley stared at Aziraphale as he folded and gently set them down on the nearby stool. Had Aziraphale’s hair always been so bright and golden? 

Aziraphale beamed at him. “There you are.” 

Crowley smiled back, warmth coiled around his heart. “Let’s get started, shall we?” 

It was late and the city was fast asleep. Crowley’s workshop was lit by a sole oil lamp. Crowley backed off from the statue and blinked for the first time in a long time. He turned to the sketch on the table and smoothed his fingers over the sketch, lingering on Aziraphale’s smile. Crowley smiled and looked up at where a marble Aziraphale was taking shape. 

Crowley habitually touched the bridge of his nose to bump his glasses higher, forgetting that he wasn’t wearing them, smudging more white dust around. 

Crowley selected another chisel and went back to work. 

* * *

Crowley and Aziraphale politely mingled with the masses milling about the church. 

“I don’t even know why we’re here, we’ve already seen the thing,” Crowley grumbled. 

Aziraphale sighed patiently. “We’ve been over this. You’re the star of the day and I’d like to see your work displayed in its rightful place, not just in a dusty workshop.” 

“Fine, whatever you say. But we’re leaving as soon as possible.” 

When the speeches were done and over with, when the sheet came down to reveal the statue, Crowley and Aziraphale stood side by side. Crowley did not watch the unveiling at all, he watched Aziraphale look at the statue and smiled. Aziraphale, as if feeling Crowley’s gaze, turned to look at Crowley and smiled back. 

Crowley reached out and brushed a finger along the back of Aziraphale’s hand. Deliberate. 

Aziraphale reached out and grasped Crowley’s hand in his. It was warm and soft and just enough for the moment. 

* * *

In the pale grey hours of morning, Crowley crouched in the cold ashes of his house. Or rather, what was left of his house, his workshop. 

It would have been nice to have some proper closure. Move on differently. 

At least he could’ve taken his - Aziraphale’s - blanket with him. 

Footsteps behind him came closer, then stopped. Crowley didn’t look up. 

Something warm and heavy was draped over Crowley’s shoulders. The curtain from the theatre, sky blue where the folds had protected it from being worn out and a cool dove grey swallowing the silver stars where they hadn’t. 

Aziraphale gently smiled down at Crowley and offered him a hand up. 

Crowley tried to smile back and let himself be pulled to his feet. 

He’d be alright. 

* * *

Crowley and Aziraphale walked into the echoing ribcage of the church. Only a small group of tourists were shuffling behind their guide on a tour, the church being too off the beaten path or too insignificant for most tourists to bother with. 

Still, the light fell through the stained glass windows onto the well-worn stone floor. 

Crowley and Aziraphale stopped in front of the central statue. Crowley straightened the skirt of his dress and pulled the faded wrap tighter around his shoulders. The tourist group huddled around their guide, who began to narrate the history of the statue. 

_“This statue, generally known as ‘Guardian Angel with Sword’ was completed at the beginning of the 16th century by a relatively unknown artist commonly known as Antonio J. Crowley. However, it remained miraculously well-preserved for its age.”_

Crowley took Aziraphale’s hand and it was just as warm and soft as it had been the first time they stood there. Aziraphale squeezed Crowley’s hand and Crowley squeezed back. Aziraphale rested his head against Crowley’s morning-sky clad shoulder. 

And with the someone explaining the history behind it6, clad in caleidoscope light they stood warm hand in warm hand and observed, together, the drape of marble.

* * *

1 And so he missed Aziraphale looking at him than strictly necessary.  [ [return to text](%E2%80%9C#return1%E2%80%9D) ]

2 Into the vicinity of a particularly corrupt government official prone to sneezing fits.  [ [return to text](%E2%80%9C#return2%E2%80%9D) ]

3 Of course, Aziraphale did not always live in such hovels. He just preferred places where he had easy access to books, good food and nobody looked twice at a confirmed bachelor. If those places happened to be hovels, well.  [ [return to text](%E2%80%9C#return3%E2%80%9D) ]

4 Judging by Aziraphale's amused stare, Crowley failed miserably.  [ [return to text](%E2%80%9C#return4%E2%80%9D) ]

5 That one time in Troy involved telling a young man named Paris that he should totally try and convince the wife of another king to come with him. A decade or so, Troy wasn’t anymore.  [ [return to text](%E2%80%9C#return5%E2%80%9D) ]

6 Sometimes badly, sometimes not.  [ [return to text](%E2%80%9C#return6%E2%80%9D) ]

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading!  
> Please check out the art, it's absolutely fantastic.  
> Comments, kudos, minor blood and food sacrifices are welcome and very much appreciated.  
> And hey. Thanks.


End file.
